The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  Since number Fourteen by now had full knowledge of my naked person, I felt it was time for me to embark on the remaining exploration of his body. One last time, I let my fingers trace the line of his shorts, all innocently, then took a turning to the top of the great bulge, all the way down and back again. The way along the bulge was astonishingly long. I wasn’t unduly worried. I mustered all my courage, took a deep breath and grabbed his bulge gently but firmly with my entire hand. Oh my God, was my immediate thought. Where the hell is THAT supposed to go? The thing was massive. Oh shit! I don’t believe it! It was long, unimaginably thick and hard as steel. All together even bigger than the mammoth apparatus sported by Number Eleven. I didn’t think it was possible to go any bigger, but apparently you live and learn. Memories of sex with Number Eleven made me expect the worst. I hadn’t expected such giant equipment because Number Fourteen wasn’t exactly a big person. He was more or less the same size as me and had a rather narrow frame. And yes, one does tend to wonder in advance, with regard to endowment. And I was surprised to find this young man endowed with such enormous equipment. But when I looked at him, the scales fell from my eyes: he was living proof of the old adage “big nose, big hose” – Number Fourteen had an impressively sized nose!

  All right then! I was so horny now, a giant cock was just what the doctor ordered! Number Fourteen draped himself over me and penetrated me, without any advance warning. He didn’t exactly have to work hard to find his way in, I was so utterly sopping wet that it more or less slithered in by itself. At the same time, he gazed at me with his blue eyes full of lustful suffering, and for the first time ever I could bear looking into someone’s eyes during sex. Usually I keep my eyes shut, for two reasons: firstly, because it’s simply too close for me. He’s already penetrating me with his cock, I don’t want him penetrating me with his eyes, too. And secondly – and much more importantly – most of them look super idiotic during sex.

  And frankly, I don’t want to see that kind of weird rutting face. Basta. It instantly kills my every sexual impulse. Plus, like a little girl I naively assume that when I have my eyes shut and can’t see anybody, they can’t see me either. I am of course quite aware of the fact that I don’t exactly wear my best ever facial expression during sex either. I still have some sense of reality! But it wasn’t like that with Number Fourteen. He was the only guy ever who looked goddamn sexy while screwing and not at all like a grunting stag. I practically drowned in his blue eyes, I just couldn’t see enough of him. My gaze settled on his shoulder and that, too, was so sexy that it turned me on all over again while he was doing his stuff on top of me. His cock fit me perfectly, it wasn’t the slightest bit uncomfortable, even though I’d feared the worst after that awful knocking session with Number Eleven. But it was just wonderful.

  In addition, his cock was shaped in a way that gave him access to parts inside of me that I didn’t even knew existed, and which were extremely sensitive to the touch in an extremely sweet, judderingly enjoyable fashion. Did Number Fourteen’s giant zizi perchance reach the ominous G-spot, the existence of which I had always denied? Number Fourteen moved exactly how I liked it best: slowly in and out, again and again and again. No manic screwing but this wonderful pleasurable sliding in and out. I came quite quickly and quite hard, and while I surrendered to my orgasmic convulsions, he couldn’t contain himself any longer and shot off into me. It was awesome. Sweaty, dripping and panting we lay next to each other and our eyes met and locked.

  So what happened after this wonderful sex adventure with my noble knight? A wonderful dream-princess summer. We both knew that we didn’t have much time because in a very few weeks I’d have to return home to go back to my old university. And since we had no idea what would happen to us then, we simply concentrated on the time we still had together. The old rule applied yet again: limitation increases desire. And so it was with us. At turbo speed we became the happiest couple on the planet. I left my miniature apartment and moved in with him, so that we wouldn’t lose even one precious hour together. I cooked for him, he took me out and introduced me to further parts of his circle and his family. We had the most amazing super-sex, almost every night. I managed to introduce this well brought up virtuous young man to smoking pot, and he soon became just as obsessed with the unbridled wildness of doped-up sex as I was. I felt fantastic with Number Fourteen. He spread his world at my feet and called me his princess. He was hopelessly in love with me and at the time I was very much in love with him too. He took me with him to all kinds of festivities high up in his social strata, I danced with him through umpteen aristocratic weddings, we went hunting with his mates, we attended pool parties with distinguished young banking and legal stars and I was a well-liked family guest – they were starting to regard me as potential wife material. During the day, we were the noble high society couple, and at night the wild unrestrained going at each other hell for leather sex-crazed fuckmonsters. A perfect mixture.

  I hardly even thought of Number Ten, from whom I hadn’t actually formally separated. I just pushed it to the back of my mind. He wrote me a heart-wrenching letter and I cried my eyes out when I read it, I was so very sorry for him and I still had feelings for him, but life with Number Fourteen was the undisputed winner. It was exciting and unique – sadly, Number Ten had no chance.

  The idea of staying long-term with Number Fourteen, of building a life together within his exclusive circles, was very appealing to me. I’d always wanted multilingual children and this would be the ideal setting. I didn’t have close ties to my native Britishy, so no fear of losing out there. I kept raving on about my exciting life abroad, aware of being the cause of much envy. My dearest wish was to stop the march of time, because I knew that things could never be this perfect again once I’d gone back to Britishy. The actual distance wasn’t so much of a problem, but whereas in Luxembourg I could fully integrate in his life, back in Britishy I would be required to have my own life again.

  My magical princess-summer was over, that much I knew when I said good-bye to Number Fourteen on my last day in Luxembourg. He had tears in his eyes, which would be me, normally, but I was strangely composed and unsentimental. Back home in Britishy, I felt empty and completely out of place, overcome by the ice-cold blues called “I-was-abroad-for-a-year-and-don’t-have-a-clue-where-I-belong-anymore” that’s a normal part of coming back. I was also overcome by thoughts of Number Ten. And Number Fourteen. Back and forth, constantly. Awful. With whom did I see my future? Did I see a future with either one of them? And would Number Ten even be interested in taking me back after all this? Or would I prefer being a Luxembourg princess? Like a merry-go-round of thoughts chasing each other, driving me crackers. No solution in sight. There I sat in my little room, lost and clueless, with no idea which way to turn.

  Number Fourteen and I regularly exchanged emails and we spent a lot of time talking on the phone. We hadn’t actually clarified our status when I left. Did we want to continue together or would it be better if we separated – these questions were still left unanswered. Strangely enough, I didn’t miss him anywhere near as much as I thought I would. But I wouldn’t admit to this. Then Number Fourteen came to visit me in Britishy. And sadly, there was not a hint of our magical summer romance. Everything felt weird. Here in Britishy, he had nothing of the confidence he displayed on his home turf, in fact he seemed strangely goofy and kind of intimidated. I showed him around some of my city, but that felt really bad since I didn’t want to be seen with him. After all, Number Ten and I were still formally a couple. And we had hardly anything to say to each other anymore, whereas before, we could have talked forever. Everything with us was suddenly different. I fitted beautifully in his Luxembourg life, but he didn’t at all fit into my British one. Even the previously so wildly wonderful sex with Number Fourteen no longer thrilled me. I tried to become aroused, really I did, but – nothing. He left me cold. My God, what was going on? Could matters of the heart be this badly affected simply by a change of setting? Appare
ntly yes. Just as quickly as I’d fallen in love with Number Fourteen, I fell out of love with him again. Not even I would want to marry me, that’s for sure: I’m such a shilly-shally girlie!

  Meanwhile, Number Ten sneaked back into my life. He wrote me a long letter that touched me so much, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. It was his farewell-letter, in which he officially declared our relationship to be over. Well of course, that was the logical conclusion after all I’d put him through recently. In his letter, he wrote about all the good things in our relationship. And I realized, in an instant, that I wanted to stay with him. I felt like laughing, I felt like crying. Here it was, at long last, the wake-up call that made me see what to do and where I belonged. After quite some hesitation I took the phone and called Number Ten. He was stunned and pleased to hear from me, but also extremely pissed off and annoyed and I felt his disappointment and confusion – the price you pay for being with me. After a period of carefully moving closer together again, Number Ten and I became a couple again. We never again talked about what happened in Luxembourg and before. We moved together and everything was hunky-dory again.

  Until one day, when a girl friend of mine rang. We had one of those girlie chats. Naturally, the sole subject was guys. And she asked how things were with me and Number Ten. I replied without even thinking about it: “It’s great, everything OK. Honestly. We’re a good team.” Silence from the other end of the line. Then my friend said, and I could practically see how she raised her right eyebrow to increase the skepticism in her voice: “A good team? Yikes. That doesn’t sound right. More like Hansel and Gretel than Romeo and Juliet!” I denied this vehemently and kept stressing that no, things were really all right with Number Ten. When we had finished our conversation, I sat and stared at the wall. She was right. Number Ten and I, we were a good team. And that wasn’t good at all. We were like brother and sister. I loved him. But I wasn’t in love with him anymore. Sex with him required enormous effort and I had to jump through evermore convoluted hoops inside of my head to even get into some kind of mood. Was this where I wanted to be? Was that it? I knew the answer but I was unable to act on it, to draw the logical conclusion. It really wasn’t bad, being with him. And as it is with us humans, we often don’t do anything unless it really hurts. Which was still in front of us.

  Number Fifteen: The hobgoblin who kissed very well but didn’t want to screw – for moral reasons

  There isn’t really anything much to write about Number Fifteen – nothing actually happened. More or less. Because, something obviously happened again that should not have happened, since I was still with Number Ten. The one thing that didn’t happen with Number Fifteen was in-and-out sex. Because Number Fifteen was a sissy.

  Number Ten and I, back together again after my Luxembourg escapade, climbed up to the next level of coupledom: living together. Oh sweet routine, oh terrible dullness. Instead of being happy about the calm quietitude and blissful harmony that finally settled in with us, my feet were already tapping their impatient dance under the table of our relationship. I’d gone cold turkey and I desperately needed a shot of something to cause butterflies in my stomach. Since nothing better was on offer, Number Fifteen was my next victim. Number Fifteen belonged to the category of was-that-really-necessary?! And he also reached top billing in the I’ll-never-introduce-you-to-my-friends category.

  I met Number Fifteen at work. He was some ten years older than me but he joined us as a student assistant. Or, if you’d want to be nasty: a loser. A slacker. Mid-thirties, devoid of ambition, never achieved a blind thing in his entire life to date. Exactly the type of guy who is the opposite of sexy. I’d always thought losers were crap. Number Fifteen was neither blessed with beauty nor with sex appeal, which might have been some kind of an explanation for what was to follow. But no – Number Fifteen was more of a mixture between the yeti from the silly Yetisports computer game and the ugly little sandman from British TV. And on top of that he talked with a lisp. I tried to make it all better by telling myself that every self-respecting female ought to have at least one hobgoblin amongst her conquests. What was it that yet again got me enmeshed in the most harebrained relationship-damaging idiocy? Evidently, it was the thrill of the forbidden. And his apparent utter non-sexiness was enough to give him his own totally unique sex appeal.

  Number Fifteen and I liked to spend lunch breaks together, so that I could offer my advice on matters of the heart and life in general. Should I mention again that I was ten years younger than him? Somehow, Number Fifteen could not get the hang of life or love at all. Everything with him always ended in drama and confusion. And since I of course knew it all, I was perfectly happy to give him the benefit of my valuable pearls of wisdom at any opportunity. I loved looking after him, every day I took in something nice for him, to cheer him up: a cool CD, a self-made joint. He was so sweet and so cute and helpless. Mother instinct? Probably not, not with a yeti. And anyway, in the meantime I’d noticed that he smelled rather delectable. Very very delectable. Kind of like freshly laundered washing, baby cream and the scent of his very own skin. This started to turn me on all of a sudden. Maybe this was what got me involved in a hanky-pankyus-interruptus with him. No doubt: I was olfactorily manipulated! My own nose and my own olfactory center were conspiring against me. And so it was that, with all this olfactory befuddlement going on, that I agreed to meet up with Number Fifteen outside of the protective environment of the canteen. In the evening. Going for a drink. Which means nothing, right?

  Well yes, it did mean something because the two of us had the most amazingly fun-filled evening together. Propelled into giggle-mode by the not inconsiderable alcohol content of a MaiTai, I had the best time! Also, I took the opportunity of staying as close as possible to him, so I could get many a good sniff at him. There wasn’t anything else that evening even though I felt quite inclined to kiss him, which simultaneously seemed absurd because my visual perception center kept reminding me that I was looking at a hobgoblin. Back home I told my boyfriend a tale of a fun-and-Prosecco-filled girlie night out. OH-OH, as one of those funny romper-suited plushy things from Teletubbieland would say.

  The plushy thing would have been right. Danger was very obviously lurking in the wings. Some days later, Number Fifteen and I arranged to skip work together. We couldn’t be bothered to go to work, it was summer – so what would more immediately suggest itself than raising two fingers at our chances of professional advancement? I didn’t mention any of this to my boyfriend, either. He left the house before me and always returned later than me. Therefore, he didn’t necessarily get to know about what I got up to in-between. I just let him assume I would be going to work, as usual. Number Fifteen collected me in his beat-up VW Golf. We were aiming for the nearest acceptable quarry pond, where we threw ourselves into the grass and were pleased as punch about our audacity. To add some audacity of my very own, I pulled out my little dope-box and let him roll a joint. We were already sweating in the sun and the pot finished us off. It was amazing. Just spending an entire day doing bugger-all, getting away, doing something deliciously forbidden. We kept lying on our blanket, staring into the summer-sunshiny sky and couldn’t stop laughing, thanks to our friendly joint. We ranted disjointedly (so to speak) and absolutely pissed ourselves laughing until the tears were running down our faces. At some point we grew quiet. Number Fifteen and I were lying close together, first on our backs, then we turned sideways and looked at each other. Again this magical moment when time stands still, the heart races and things stir excitedly between your legs. Number Fifteen reached for me with his hand and began to move my hair, all sticky from the summer sun, out of my face. Very slowly. My clumsy wood gnome turned out to be surprisingly gentle. I practically melted beneath his hand. Then I started to nudge my face against his hand, his arm, like a cat demanding to be stroked. This got me another load of his yummy scent molecules that continued to act like an aphrodisiac for me. Immediately, I was horny as a goat in heat. With the uninhibiting effect
of the joint acting as an additional propellant, I went at him full blast. I kissed his hand, his arm and kept moving upwards to his sweaty throat and his sweaty face. It tasted of salt, delicious and randy. I sweated and I dripped, not just because of the heat. Then we kissed.

  This kiss completely floored me. Number Fifteen, my little slacker yeti loser, appeared to have one thing in his life that he was after all an expert in: kissing. This was one hell of a kiss! It swept me off my feet. I hadn’t been kissed this brilliantly for a long time. Soft, gentle, licky, demanding, mouths that fit together perfectly, lips, tongues and movements and all so incredibly arousing that I almost melted away. It was as though our mouths were screwing uncontrollably. You shouldn’t judge a wood gnome prematurely, because, as you can see, one or other of them might come up with a few pleasant surprises. Naturally, the joint amplified the pleasure rating. Normally you have a ferocious attack of the munchies after smoking pot, but with us, we had a ferocious attack of kissing. We kissed until our brains gave out, all the while squeezing and rubbing our bodies together, grabbing each other wherever we wanted to and groaned and gasped lustfully right there, in full view on a public meadow by a quarry pond, which we didn’t care about in the slightest. It wasn’t exactly crowded out there anyway. This make-out-and-grope orgy with Number Fifteen got me going so hard that I mounted his leg like a randy bitch and rubbed up and down for a few seconds until I practically exploded. Number Fifteen was well impressed by this impromptu orgasmic interlude.